


Irony

by QueenofBaws (Sisterwives)



Category: Kingdom Hearts
Genre: Allusions to questionable scientific experimentation, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-26
Updated: 2017-05-26
Packaged: 2018-11-05 08:38:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,784
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11009859
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sisterwives/pseuds/QueenofBaws
Summary: Inspired by exploringcastleoblivion on Tumblr. When Vexen realizes his weapon is a shield, of all things, he can't help but dwell on the cruelness of it all. He has never been able to protect anything or anyone--particularly the one person who matters most.





	Irony

Even, as a general rule, does not care for children. They’re loud, they ask too many questions, and above all else, they don’t give respect where it’s due. Ienzo is an exception; Ienzo is quiet, he knows more than he should, and he carries an air of reverence as most children would a blanket.

When Ansem first brought the boy into their fold, Even was the first to object. They didn’t _need_ something small scuttling around the Castle, leaving crumbs and sticky handprints in its wake. They had _Braig_ for that, already. But of course Ansem was more humanitarian than human, or at least it seemed to Even, and the child joined their ranks—a tiny, silent specter who clung to corners and maintained eye contact for just _too_ long.

He spent his days tucked out of plain view, startling anyone who turned too abruptly or made the mistake of leaving the door unlocked behind them. Even couldn’t remember the day, the moment, the event, that led to Ienzo entering the labs, but once it had happened, there was no going back.

Ienzo is not his equal, by any stretch of the imagination. However, with each passing day, his presence becomes less and less and less unwanted—by minute, almost imperceptible increments. It’s commonplace for Even to leave to sleep or eat, only to return to find equations finished or plans sketched or, upsettingly enough, dissections completed by a hand other than his. And while it has yet to occur that Ienzo has provided an answer that he, himself, did not know…he suspects that day is coming. The boy doesn’t talk, but that’s just fine by him; there is a _knowing_ in his eyes, an intellect only beginning to bloom, and he finds himself anticipating the watershed moment when it bursts forth from its bud and overtakes his own.

He wonders privately, only sometimes, whether this is the pride of a mentor…or a parent. Ienzo’s are no longer around to feel pride—or much of anything else, to be frank. He chooses not to speak of it, and keeps the strange, cloying feeling trapped up tight in his chest. It’s a sentiment that feels safer to be silent, particularly as the stranger joins their ranks and Ienzo’s rolled-up sleeves are more and more often stained tacky maroon by dusk. The Castle and its inhabitants are not half as safe as they used to be.

Never has he described himself as particularly personable, nor has he ever been one to read other people. Expressions and gestures are usually lost on him, their nuances too vague. But even considering this, it takes him little time to recognize how fixated Xehanort has become on Ienzo. Even has no question as to _why_ —the newcomer has seen in him precisely what Even has always known. This is a child on the verge of something so great in scope that at times it seemed perhaps more terrifying than miraculous. He has noticed, too, how Ienzo has begun a slow, methodical move away from his side of the labs. There is a charm to Xehanort; there is a quiet, thrumming sort of power that emanates from him, dark and heady, and Ienzo is not the only one who begins to feel the pull of that looming magnetism.

Even doesn’t much trust _that_ , but he’s never much trusted _anyone_. So when the labs fall, it seems to him that they fall grandly and all at once, with very little warning. It’s in that way that he finds himself on the floor of the labs, somehow too hot and too cold all at once, edges of his vision beginning to blur, beginning to _blacken_. He had tried to put himself between Xehanort and Ienzo, he truly _had_ , but everything had happened so fast. Though his vision doubles and trebles, he can still make out the boy’s form on the floor before him. He can’t see his face for his hair, but there’s something innately _wrong_ about the shape of him—there’s no way he could _breathe_ like that, face mashed against the tiles. He must be so cold. Even is. 

\---

When they awake again, two things are immediately apparent: Zexion despises him, and his intellect has burgeoned into something lush and _verdantly_ venomous. He is not at all sure which insult stings more, but when compounded, it feels nearly unbearable. This was once the child he had tended to, the young talent that he had—in his own way—nurtured and fed. But Ienzo is dead and Zexion’s allegiance lies, strangely enough, with his murderer.

“At least _he_ was honest with his intentions.” And oh, it took only a day or two in their new surroundings, in their new forms, for him to regret every second spent wishing Ienzo would speak; Zexion has weaponized his words, as though every instant spent silent is used to sharpen their edges and hone their points. “I was never under any sort of _false assumptions_ regarding his plans. He promised power where I had none…and so he delivered. You, on the other hand…” He, too, found himself realizing with mounting horror how very, very strongly the boy could resemble _him_ in posture, in comportment. He recognizes each tilt of the head, each minute expression—not for what they signal or threaten, but instead as one of his own. “ _You_ were supposed to _protect_ me.” 

“I _tried_ ,” Vexen insists, shrinking back at the tightness, the shrillness, of his voice. Everything about him feels frozen these days, and each part of him is taut with chill. “You have no _idea_ what I—”

“And how did _that_ work out for you?” Zexion does with one raised eyebrow what Ienzo could do only with a scalpel.

He is not surprised when Zexion surpasses him, rises through the ranks at a speed that is both wondrous and horrific. He is not surprised when the others begin to curl their lips at the thought of being commanded by such a small, sickly thing. He is not surprised when the seeds of dissent take root in each and every one of them.

He _is_ , however, surprised the first time he is sent out on a mission and has reason to call forth his weapon. The others’ have all suited them to the letter: Xigbar’s guns, Xaldin’s lance, Lexaeus’s axe, all perfect examples of the Guards’ strengths, as well as how they chose to wield them. And while it hadn’t seemed much a _weapon_ , at first, Zexion’s lexicon was a perfect extension of himself.

So there is shock and dismay—and something that might’ve once rung out as _sadness_ in a past life—when Vexen’s weapon manifests in his hand. A _shield_. Icy blue and pointed, nearly as tall as he. A shield. It is a protector’s tool, but he is no protector. Of that much he is abundantly sure. But cowards, he realizes, also have use of such things.

When he is assigned to Oblivion, he is overcome with the awful suspicion that there is more intention to the post than simple research. Xemnas has given his orders, and he is to begin his cloning project. The prospect of unlimited resources, of absolutely no restrictions on his work…once, it would’ve filled him with unspeakable glee. But there are whispers in the halls and he feels his stomach sink with something leaden when he is informed of just _who_ , precisely, is meant to accompany him. Xemnas knows the founding members well enough to understand _exactly_ what he’s doing—and it’s this that tells Vexen that there is something to be feared growing in Oblivion.

The labs are familiar, if dark. Sometimes, he can almost forget that he isn’t in the Castle, that he won’t have to answer to Ansem. But the jars on the walls are full of things more caustic and carrion in nature, the scent of death is heavy.

He has walked in on many a conversation between Zexion and Lexaeus—conversations that abruptly end the moment his presence is known, conversations spoken in tones too hushed and hurried to _not_ be concerned about. The two have become a set. It’s something Vexen quite literally cannot decide how he would feel about, had he still been capable of feeling. Lexaeus despises him too, he knows; it’s likely more out of principle than anything else. There is not a day or night or moment that he is able to forget the stark fact that Even was not the _only_ one who had been reaching for Ienzo’s felled body on the cold, cold laboratory floors. He was not the _only_ one who failed to protect him. He wonders why he is the only one who is hated, then.

The answer comes to him in the strangest of places. It’s only when he’s looking down both of Axel’s flaming chakrams, breath caught high in his chest, hiding himself as best he can behind the tapered shape of his shield that it dawns on him, echoing endlessly as though spoken by every form left floating—abandoned—in their tanks back in his lab.

 _Coward, coward, coward_.

\---

He was not supposed to wake up again.

As his vision cleared and the world took shape around him, the very first thing he noticed was how blindingly _white_ his lab coat was. At that, he sat up quickly enough to send his surroundings spinning. Had it all been some dream? Some cruel and horrible dream? Where were the others, where was—

But it was not the floor of the labs he finds himself in. No, instead it’s the familiar walls of his old bedroom. The walls have yellowed with age, the air is thick with stale dust, but it is still unmistakably his room.

There is movement in one of the corners, and he is startled to find a face looking back at him. It’s familiar, but there’s something in the eyes—something like remorse, he thinks—that makes it seem uncanny. “Hello,” it says in a voice he can _almost_ recognize. It seems strange, but really, he never _had_ heard Ienzo speak. Only Zexion had ever spoken, and _this_ …this was not Zexion. “You’re probably…confused.” He looks away, and even through the shadow his hair throws over his face, he thinks he sees the faintest hint of _humility_ dance across his features.

Even, as a general rule, does not care for children. They’re loud, they ask too many questions, and above all else, they don’t give respect where it’s due. Ienzo is, and always has been, an exception; Ienzo is brilliant, he recognizes his failures, and above all else, he is _Even’s son_.


End file.
